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by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Episode Tag, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: “Come on, angel, let’s go home.”





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a drabble I composed in my head during a dull shift at work. I love them enough that I wanted to give it life.

Aziraphale paused, just for a moment, outside the Ritz, and let the sights, sounds, and smells of London wash over him, the indisputable proof that the world spun on, mostly oblivious to just how close it had come to destruction.

 _Too_ close. _To think_ , he thought with a shudder, _all this could have been extinguished in one great ineffable sweep…_

The brush of knuckles against his hand drew his attention back to the present, to the demon stirring restlessly beside him, accustomed to his whims but as impatient as ever.

“Come on, angel, let’s go home.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped around, fast enough that it perhaps explained the second of dizziness that swirled through the suddenly light head of the body he inhabited.

“Home?” he squeaked.

Crowley shrugged, a lazy hitch of one shoulder, far too nonchalant considering what his words implied. “Yeah,” he prompted, and Aziraphale could almost hear his eyes rolling. “Your shop, my place, wherever.”

Perhaps he meant nothing by it, just employing a turn of phrase, but something tried to work itself loose in Aziraphale’s mind, something he was still trying to put his finger on when Crowley turned to regard him, one eyebrow arched above his sunglasses, and he realised he hadn’t spoken for some considerable length of time.

It took several blinks to kick his brain back into gear. “I uh… I did have a rather nice bottle of red back at the shop. I suppose I still do. I was saving it for a special occasion.”

And if there was ever an occasion that could be considered “special”, the world failing to end would surely be it.

Crowley’s other eyebrow joined its partner. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tempt me.”

“Oh, good Heavens no! Of course not! The very notion!” He caught the beginnings of a smirk twitching at the corner of Crowley’s lips and sighed a long-suffering sigh. Then, because he was just a bit of a bastard himself, he raised a devious smile of his own. “Did I succeed?”

“Hmm…” Crowley cocked his head, pretended to consider, as if in the habit of declining invitations involving alcohol. “I’ll have to think about it.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t a decision that required much deliberation, but its manifestation was something of a surprise. The long, cool fingers that wound around his hand gave Aziraphale a start. Not an unpleasant one, but one that left him rooted to the spot in shock for an embarrassingly long time, long enough to require a squeeze and a tug to get him moving, trotting to keep up with long strides that bent in the direction of Soho.

And it finally struck him, the meaning behind Crowley’s earlier words, whether it had been intended or not; it didn’t matter where they were – the bookshop, the moon, Alpha Centauri – it was that they were there _together_.

It wasn’t the _place_ that made a home, it was whom you shared it with.


End file.
